


Which One of Us Has Killed an Albatross?

by ADeedWithoutaName



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad end, Gen, Horror, Maybe some Wincest if you really squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-31 19:32:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21244145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADeedWithoutaName/pseuds/ADeedWithoutaName
Summary: There's something in the bunker. Sam wishes he could leave.
Comments: 29
Kudos: 34





	Which One of Us Has Killed an Albatross?

_My name is Samuel William Winchester. My brother's name is Dean. I'm thirty-two years old and he's thirty-six. Our best friend is Castiel, a seraph, an angel of the Lord, who's kind of a giant flake, turns out. The Lord (Chuck), not Castiel. My parents were Mary Campbell Winchester and John Winchester. I'm a hunter and a Man of Letters. I live in Lebanon, Kansas, and I'm from Lawrence. I have an undergraduate degree in Criminal Psychology from Stanford University, I graduated in Spring 2005. When I was a baby, Prince of Hell Azazel bled into my mouth because I was chosen to be Lucifer's true vessel, and Dean was Michael's, but the demon blood's gone now. I started the apocalypse, but we stopped it together. We've saved the world together._

* * *

It starts when they get back to the bunker after the hunt. Sam takes the thing down to put it in a hex box, rituals and research his unspoken forte. It's been long enough since he's gotten to bind something like this that he's honestly kind of excited. He already knows what he's going to do, Judeo-Arabic base, Buddhist touches, a little bit of voodoo, and a handful of Old Norse protection runes to finish it all off. Finding the Men of Letters research on hybridizing the traditions and spells of different cultures to boost their strength was a blessing, and he's been building off it ever since. Can't go wrong with an entire globe's worth of sealing magic.

When he's finished, hours later, and it's all packed away, Sam goes up to the kitchen, where Dean's making dinner. He sorta wants to brag about what he's just accomplished down in their curse-proof workroom, knows Dean would listen even if he's tired and probably doesn't care about a lot of it. But Sam's beat, too, just looking forward to burgers and a long, hot shower. Shop talk can wait for tomorrow.

Dean glances at him when he comes in, and frowns when Sam was expecting a smile. "What the hell've you been doing down there this whole time? Weren't you gonna take care of that thing?"

Sam blinks, and then he looks down, and sees it cradled carefully in one arm.

He has a skewing, slippery second before he wrests himself rightways up again and rationalizes that he's more tired than he thought. Must've imagined all the work he did, which really sucks because he was damn proud of it. Maybe he'll skip the shower tonight.

"Uh, yeah." Sam clears his throat. "Yeah. I'll go put it away right now."

"You better." Crushing a burger flat and sizzling in the pan with a spatula, Dean eyes what Sam's holding with undisguised disgust. "Damn thing gives me the creeps."

* * *

_My name is Samuel Winchester. My brother's name is Dean. I'm thirty-two years old and he's four years older than me. Our best friend is Castiel, a seraph, an angel of the Lord. My parents were John and Mary Winchester. I'm a hunter and a Man of Letters. I live in Lebanon and I'm from Lawrence, Kansas. I have an undergraduate degree in Criminal Psychology from Stanford, I graduated in 2005. When I was a baby, Azazel, a Prince of Hell, bled into my mouth because I'm Lucifer's true vessel, and Dean's Michael's, but I think the demon blood's gone now. I started the apocalypse. Dean and I have saved the world together._

* * *

Sam's shattered out of sleep the next morning by Dean hollering for him, sounding pissed. He scrambles up (did he seriously fall asleep in his jeans last night? Probably a good thing he opted out of the shower) and books it to the entrance, where Dean's got an expression like a thunderhead and his arms folded over his chest.

It doesn't take Sam any time at all to spot the thing sitting in the center of the map table.

He stops, and stares. He's got a very clear memory of putting it in a basic hex box last night, deciding not to bother with the bells and whistles until later because he couldn't trust himself to do it right when he was in that state, and...and…

Actually, does he have that memory? He's not even sure he remembers leaving the kitchen with it.

"What the hell, man? I thought you said you were gonna deal with this creepy-ass piece of shit," Dean snaps. Sam tries to answer, but Dean just shakes his head. "Whatever, I got it." He grabs it and brushes past Sam, but hesitates just long enough to clap him on the shoulder. "And maybe go back to bed, grab another hour or two. You look like crap."

Dean doesn't actually look a whole lot better but Sam doesn't say so.

That afternoon, the thing's back in the library, sitting on top of one of the cases like it's just one of the other artifacts displayed up there, and Sam knows Dean notices it but he doesn't say anything. So Sam doesn't, either. Maybe Dean thinks it looks nice up there or something, although it doesn't really mesh with Dean's usual, much more gun-and-knife-and-porn-y taste in decor.

Actually, now Sam thinks about it, he's not even really sure what it looks like. He can't exactly get a handle on it. He thinks there might be shapes to it that are kind of like wings, but beyond that, it just kind of sieves out of his mind. He almost asks Dean about it but he's afraid of being made to touch it again, so he lets it go.

Like so many other things in his life, he'll deal with it when it becomes a problem.

* * *

_My name is Sam Winchester, and my brother is Dean. We're in our thirties. Our best friend is Castiel, an angel. My parents were John and Mary Winchester, who are both gone now. I was a hunter and a Man of Letters. I live in Lebanon and I'm from Lawrence. I have a degree in Psychology from Stanford. When I was a baby, Azazel bled into my mouth because I'm Lucifer's true vessel, and Dean was Michael's, but maybe the demon blood's gone now. I started the apocalypse. I started a few._

* * *

Sam goes for a run early the next morning. He notices the thing on the stairs on his way out, and rolls his eyes because now he knows Dean's just messing with him. He's not gonna acknowledge it. It's creepy, he can agree with that, but he's pretty sure they'd be feeling it by now if there was actually something wrong with it.

It's been a while since they had a prank war. He oughta try and think of a way to get back at Dean while he's running, since that's always been the best place for him to think.

Outside, on the narrow wooded road that loops around the bunker, Sam starts to run through the cool air and blue-gray light. His heart cycles up and his muscles pull and stretch, his hair bouncing and his lungs swelling. He read once, a long time ago, that exercise is a celebration, not a punishment, and he couldn't agree more.

He's just building up to full speed when he smacks right into a wall, pain like sheet lightning bursting through his face. He grabs his nose and mouth, both bleeding, as he stumbles back with a pained shout, and realizes that he's still in the bunker. In a hallway, in the dorms. And he just charged face-first into a concrete wall.

Dean comes running, asks what the hell he's doing. Sam struggles to answer him.

"I-I guess it was cold outside," he says finally, shakily, nose already starting to swell. "I decided to just stay in."

"Cold outside?" Dean repeated. "In June?"

"I just wasn't payig addedshun." Sam's nose is already starting to swell. Dean sighs loudly and takes hold of his bicep.

"C'mere. Let's get you patched up."

They walk right past the thing. Neither of them comment on it.

Sam's nose is probably broken, for about the hundredth time between the two of them, but not bad. His mouth is worse, a couple teeth chipped and both lips split. That surprises Dean ("I mean, with the beak on you, Sammy, would've thought the whole rest of you would've stopped feet back"), but he predicts that Sam'll heal quick. Even if he's gonna have a really nice pair of black eyes tomorrow.

Sam takes the ice pack and aspirin he's offered and goes to lie down for a while. He's exhausted.

* * *

_I don't feel so great._

* * *

The pounding in Sam's head is what drags him, brain feeling sluggish and bloated, into consciousness. It's like all the blood in his body's gathered in the middle of his face, but at least his eyes aren't swollen shut; he hates that. The soft light of the one lamp he left on seems too bright, everything painful-sharp and crystal-clear around the edges, and he wonders if he didn't give himself a concussion. He pushes up with a groan, realizes he's still got on all his running gear. He tries to swear but his mouth's killing him.

He stumbles into the bathroom, splashes cold water on his face, and that _stings _but also it helps. Sam steels himself for the damage and looks in the mirror.

And Dean was right: he's got a real nice pair of black eyes.

Sam's not sure that this was what he meant, though. Iris and sclera shaded out, just one giant, soulless pupil filling up the whole eyeball. Black and glossy as a soul that's had all the light hacked and ripped and carved right out of it.

He jerks back, stumbling, stomach lurching, and smacks his skull on the wall behind him, which comes up fast in the tiny bathroom. He happens to look in the mirror again, eyes watering, and now all he sees are swollen lids and rings of bruising framing decidedly human eyes. His heart stutters in his core when he thinks that they might be just a little darker than normal, but no, they just...do that, because the light in here sucks. He swallows.

How long's it been since Sam actively feared seeing that in a mirror? Maybe the phobia didn't fade away, just went dormant. Maybe some part of him is still dead sure he's gonna wake up one day with the human facade shed and what's always been underneath flexing its claws and baring its fangs, ready to go to work.

Sam needs to get out of here. He changes fast as he can, yanks open his door, and nearly trips over _it_. With a sudden spike of rage, Sam boots _it_ into the opposing wall. He expects _it_ to make a sound like anything solid hitting, any little statue, because _it_'s made out of...wood? No, some kind of stone. Or metal. _It_ might be bronze, actually.

But _it_ makes a meaty thudding noise, like he's just soccer-kicked a cat into a wall, and that makes him sick all over again.

He storms into Dean's room. "I don't know what you're playing at but you need to stop moving that thing around. It's not fucking funny. It wasn't funny to start with."

Dean's half-rising from the end of his bed, bewildered, where he's sat watching TV. "What're you talking about?"

"The - the _thing_!" Sam savagely snaps a hand in the direction of his own room. "You know what I'm talking about. We both hate it. It was on the table, then it was in the library, and then the stairs and the hall and now it's right outside my room and I want it _gone, _okay? Almost broke my neck." He sucked in a breath. "How can you even stand touching it that much?"

"Okay, Sammy…" Dean holds both hands out, placating, constellation of scars and calluses on palms and fingers. "I don't know what's going on here, but I haven't been moving it."

Sam's breathing hard. He's learned, during the years, how Dean lies. There's "did-something-stupid-and-don't-want-you-to-bitch-at-me." There's "did-something-really-stupid-and-don't-want-you-to-scold-me." "Something's-eating-me-up." "I'm-trying-to-protect-you." "Don't-push-'cause-you-don't-wanna-know." He lies in a lot of the same ways. But he also knows, he's pretty sure, when Dean's not lying, and he's not lying now.

Sam swallows. "You haven't?"

"Uh, no." Dean drops his hands, shakes his head, and then he comes over. "Look, dude, you okay?"

Sam feels his mouth working. He doesn't look at anything reflective because he's afraid to see his own eyes. "You remember that spell? The one that was making you forget stuff."

Dean grimaces. His mouth doesn't move but Sam sees it in the flicker around his eyes. "Unfortunately. Why?"

"When that was going on, how...what'd you do? To hang on as long as you did."

"Sam." Dean sounds a lot like their dad when he just states Sam's name like that. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Nothing. Just...curious." Sam blows out a breath. _I'm-trying-to-protect-you._

Dean looks at him for a long, long moment, so long Sam starts to worry that maybe there really is something wrong with his eyes and it isn't just him who can see it, but then Dean just says, "Looked in the mirror. Told myself things I knew for sure over and over. My name, Mom and Dad, what I am. I mean, what I do. You. You were the big one." One corner of his mouth almost tugs up. "But for you? With that giant nerd brain? Think writing might work better. If, y'know, anything like that ever happened to you."

"Okay." It's good advice. Sam turns to go. "Thanks."

"Sam." It makes him turn back, and Dean's still studying him. "You'd tell me, right? If something like that was happening to you?"

Sam twitches out a smile. "Course I would."

"'Cause you know we work better together."

"Yeah. I know."

* * *

_My name is Sam and my brother is Dean. We're thirty We're older than thirty. Castiel is our best friend. He's an angel. My parents John and Mary can't help me now. I was a hunter and a Man of Letters. I live in Lawrence. I have a degree from Stanford. Azazel fed me his blood and I didn't ever stop drinking because I'm Lucifer's true vessel. I damned us all every last one of us._

* * *

Sam spends the day in the library, on his laptop. First of all, he writes down everything that he knows, or at least the most important stuff. He does it a few times, just to be sure. He also tries writing _All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy_, but then he deletes it because it's not as funny as he thought it was.

He does research on curses, early-onset dementia, meningitis, epilepsy, Huntington's, everything like that. But the internet's running so slow it might as well not be working at all and most of these things only show up if you've got a family history and, since he knows only a little more than jack shit about both sides of his family, he's out of luck. He wonders if demon blood exacerbates Alzheimer's.

When Sam's about ready to go to bed, he realizes that _**it**_'s in his room. He knows without even opening the door and when he does, it's confirmed. He races through without looking at _**it**_, gathering toothbrush, toothpaste, clothes. Then he slams and locks the door behind himself and even pours a salt line down in front of it, but that feels about as useless and stupid as praying to God.

He goes to Dean's room with all his things. Dean looks at his full arms and raises an eyebrow.

"Sleepover?" he asks. "I don't know, Sammy, I'm gonna have to ask my mom."

"It's in my room," Sam says, and Dean doesn't seem surprised.

"Well, that sucks," he announces, and then steps back, waving Sam in. "C'mon. Lemme grab you some blankets and pillows 'cause, hate to break it to you, but you ain't kicking me out of my bed. Make all the old man jokes you want. My joints can't take it."

* * *

_My name is Sam and Dean's my brother. I'm happy here and just want fucking out of here let me fucking out. Castiel is an angel. It might be my fault our parents died. I'm not a hunter anymore. I live here now and I'm so happy please let me leave. I have a degree. I'm full of demon blood and I'll never fucking get rid of it because it's part of me forever, I'm a freak, I was always a freak. It's all my fault. I'm happy here fuck fuck fuck fUCK FUCK FUCK_

* * *

Castiel gets back from his own hunt and as soon as he walks into the bunker, Sam wants to tell him to turn around and get the hell out. A wave of foreboding practically takes him off his feet. He doesn't have any idea why, and Castiel must pick up on it because he looks at him oddly, but they don't talk about it.

Castiel heals his beat-up face, which Sam is extremely grateful for. Now he can look in the mirror again, where he has just been hooking a flannel around the beveled edges of Dean's when he brushes his teeth.

They all sit down in the kitchen to catch up, debrief Castiel on his case. It sounds like a fun one, a milk run for an angel, even one limping along the way that Castiel is. Sam gets up to grab himself and Dean a couple more beers and Castiel asks Dean about their recent hunt.

"Oh, went great," Dean replies, easy, relaxed. "Knocked it outta the park."

"What did it wind up being, then?"

Sam hears Dean suck his teeth. "Oh...y'know."

"I don't," Castiel says bluntly. "You were very vague on the details. I'm not sure I remember why you went in the first place - what did you find?"

Dean struggles. Sam rummages in the fridge, knocking around the beer bottles that it wouldn't take anybody more than ten seconds to find, not wanting to go back to the table.

"Does it matter?" Dean says finally. "It went fine."

Castiel is silent for a long time, and then asks, "But what was it? How did you take care of it?"

Dean sighs loudly, annoyed, and then pauses. "Actually, Cas...y'know what?" He laughs a little. "I don't think we even went on a hunt at all."

Sam turns, beers in hand, ready to correct him, but then he realizes that he's right. They haven't left the bunker. After all, if they'd been on a hunt, wouldn't one of them remember it?

Castiel's frowning, but doesn't ask them any more questions about it.

* * *

_Something's wrong something's wrong something's wrong something's wrong wrong wrong WRONG _ _ **WRONG ** _ _ **WRONG** _

* * *

"Hey." Sam drips awake at Dean's voice, prying open gummy eyes. "I'm going to the store, we're out of...everything, pretty much. You want anything?"

Sam shakes his head against the pillow. He's in Dean's bed. He's been sleeping a lot lately, and he sleeps here even when Dean's in it, too. He's not sure when they started sleeping together, it feels like he was on the floor at some point but now this is right. He starts to go back to sleep but then remembers

"Oh, wait, no, actually, I do." Sam yawns. "New wallet and phone, if you can swing it. The…" He swallows. "Old ones are still in my room."

Dean accepts that without question, ruffling Sam's hair and telling him he'll be back soon. He's not kidding: Sam's just reached for his jeans, figuring he might as well get up and dressed, when Dean walks back in.

"Forget something?" Sam asks, and Dean gives him a puzzled look. "Weren't you going to the store?"

Dean shakes his head. "Nah. We don't need anything - got everything we could ever want right here." He picks up a magazine and flops down onto the bed Sam hasn't made yet, and there's something wrong with the girl on the cover but Sam can't figure out what it is. It makes him feel kind of sick and headachey to look at for too long, like his own eyes in the mirror, so he glances away.

"Fine. Whatever." Annoyed, Sam leaves. He knows that he, at least, needs something, or multiple somethings, even if he can't remember what they are. He'll go and get it himself.

He heads for the garage but must've gotten turned around because he winds up wandering through the showers. He tries again, and now he's in the armory. He finally makes it out to the garage but then he can't find their car, just the fleets the Men of Letters had, antiques now with dead engines draining oil onto the floor. He goes back. On his fourth try, he finds the car. Dean's baby. And he touches her and feels better for a while, even though he wasn't feeling bad before, or didn't think he was. But she's locked and he doesn't have the keys. Has to go back.

He's pretty sure, looking for the keys, not sure where they'd be, that there's something horrible in the garage. That's why he can't go there. But if there is, then he needs to get rid of it, because that's what he does, he saves people and hunts things. Right? Doesn't he?

Or is he one of the things that need to be hunted?

Fuck this, he's walking to town. But as soon as he decides on that Dean catches him by the shoulders.

"What the hell're you doing?" he demands, and he's all freaked out.

Sam opens his mouth to tell him but realizes that his throat's dry, his tongue like a scrap of flannel in his mouth. He's shaky with a howling hunger in his stomach and he's in the workroom, with the useless hex boxes, and Dean's caught him on his latest circle of god-only-knows how many in the middle of the floor.

"I've been looking for you for, like, a day. What're you doing?" Dean wants to know.

Sam clears his throat and tries to answer, but he doesn't remember.

* * *

_Please god help i'm just so sorry_

* * *

Sam's in the library, doing research. It'd probably be going a lot better if he could remember what he's researching.

"Something's wrong, Sam."

Castiel's in the doorway. Sam looks at him, and it's like a crack opens up in his brain, light streaming in. He remembers. He leaps to his feet, practically trembling with relief.

"Y-yeah!" he agrees. "Cas, there's something in my room. We can't leave, I don't know what's going on. What is it?"

"I don't know," Castiel says gravely, "but it's powerful, whatever it is. Old." A pause. "I can feel it trying to get a grip on me. It isn't something that I can deal with on my own. Maybe if I were at my full power, but…" He shrugs with one shoulder. "Maybe not even then."

"So what d'we do?"

"I'll take care of it," Castiel assures Sam. "I'm leaving, and I'll come back with help. I don't think that there's anything we can do from inside. The influence is too strong here."

Sam laughs, a dry, broken sound. "You can't get out. I can't even make it to the front door anymore."

"I'm an angel, Sam." Castiel smiles, almost amused, but it's tired. "I don't have to use the front door."

Sam probably shouldn't be, but he's nearly giddy with relief. It's all gonna be over soon. He goes back to Dean's room, their room, and tells him that, and he doesn't get it, but that's okay. He will before too much longer.

Later, Sam finds Castiel in the library.

He's sitting at one of the tables, a book in front of him, placid. Sam's stomach wads itself up into his ribcage and it takes a few tries for him to clear his throat enough to speak.

"I thought you were leaving."

"Why?" Castiel's confused.

"Because something's _wrong_."

"I don't need to leave right now, Sam."

"But something's wrong!" Sam's voice starts to rise without him wanting it to. "Something's really wrong, and it's got me, and Dean, a-and now it's got you, and who's supposed to fix this?"

Castiel, concerned, half-pushes himself out of his seat, reaching a hand out like he's going to lay fingers against Sam's forehead. "Sam, do you feel all right?" But before Sam can answer, tell him that of course he fucking doesn't, Castiel relaxes and sits back down, calm again. Like he never even spoke.

Sam wants to grab him and shake him, but instead, he just forces a smile when Castiel asks if he can help him with something, like he just came in.

He tries to go back to his room but _**it**_'s there, he forgot, so he goes to Dean's instead and crawls into bed with him, clinging to him and sobbing for hours like he's five years old again. Dean holds him and doesn't seem to think there's anything wrong with it.

* * *

_I'm happy here and I don't want to leave. I'm Sam and I have Dean. Maybe Castiel too but if not that's okay. I killed our parents. I can't be a hunter, can't hunt monsters when I am one. I'm not sure if I went to college or not. Have I ever left here? Why would I leave? Why would I leave? Why would I ever leave? Maybe if I died they could leave if I died it would fix everything I'm just so fucking happy here_

* * *

Sam goes back to the library the next morning. What he thinks is the next morning, not like it matters anymore. Castiel is gone and he doesn't know where he is. Sam looks for his laptop but can't find it, doesn't remember the last time he saw it, let alone used it. He doesn't think it works anymore. He scrounges up paper and pencil instead and sits down to write because he needs to make sense of what he still knows, but when he starts trying to write down his own name, Dean's, what comes out is _I'm happy here._

He didn't write that. He tries again: _I don't want to leave._

He tries a dozen more times, and eventually he even tries with his eyes closed, but it's just those same two lines over and over again, and then he's run out of blank paper. He can't find any more so he yanks a book off the shelf and scrawls across every printed page in it but it's no use.

Sam goes through every book in the library, tearing holes in pages and parchment, just trying to write his own goddamn name and his brother's, or maybe just his brother's, and his hand's cramping and his eyes hurt and he's so damn thirsty, when's the last time he drank anything?

He can't remember but there's water in his room. He should go to his room.

Sam goes to Dean's room instead because it's safe there. And when he gets there, he snatches a knife out of its rack before Dean can stop him, jagged black blade Dean brought back from _somewhere_, and then, screaming, Sam tries to carve their names into the wall.

And finally, there's his name, clawed bloody into the plaster and drywall and paint, dotted with raw nails trailing flesh because there wasn't ever a knife, but there's other words there, too.

_It's so easy to break, Sam._

* * *

_i'm still Sam and i still have Dean and we're happy here and maybe we can fix this together better together have i ever left? havent i always been here? Im happy here. somethings wrong but it always is just me just me just me me me me me always been me everythings me its all my fault i brought it here it came for me_

_please god dad please i know im filthyweakbadevil but lemme get him out please just lemme save him_

* * *

He knows he thought about killing himself at one point, although he can't imagine why he'd do that. Not when everything's going just fine. Sometimes his brother kisses his head where there should be a blooming exit wound, sometimes he rubs fond thumbs over his wrists where gashes should open to the bone, and those times he almost feels like something's wrong, but he doesn't know what.

He's whole, and most of the time, he doesn't have to worry.

He follows his brother everywhere, hand fisted in his shirt. He knows it's important they stay together but he doesn't know why.

Has there ever been anybody else? He's pretty sure it's only ever been them, here, nowhere and nobody else.

His hand is twisted from writing. He ran out of those leather-and-paper things so he started in on the walls, but he's not gonna have any of those left soon, either. He guesses he'll have to use his skin. When that's all gone, he'll get his brother's permission before using his.

His lips are dry and cracked, split over chipped teeth, and his tongue aches from talking, although he only ever says a few things anymore.

"_You have to leave."_

"_Just leave me with it, I'm the one it wants, I have to be."_

"_Get out, Dean, you gotta leave."_

His brother smiles at him, asks why he'd leave when he has everything he wants right here, kisses his black black black eyes, licks him where he bleeds. And he wants to stop him because he knows his blood's toxic, but it's about time his brother had what he wants for once.

* * *

_lucifer_

_I'm happy here._

_ill come back_

_I don't want to leave._

_ill say yes_

_I'm happy here._

_just save him_

_Never let me leave._

* * *

He goes to the place where he used to sleep. It's taken a warping, knotted eternity to realize he has to do this, to decide on it. He's piled so many things in front of the opening and he feels like he should recognize some. Like they're important. But he just pulls them out of the way with bone hands and rusty teeth.

A line of white is beneath them, glittering crystals, he knows they'll burn him if he touches them and he can't cross but they sweep away, no effort on his part, to let him in.

He knows this is needed so "he" can get out _(why would he want to?)_, or so that at least whatever happens to him won't be his fault _(all of it's his fault)._

He fumbles with a round thing and finally it turns and catches and a flat surface swings away to show the hole that goes in, and as he steps through it, he's still talking but the words aren't for _**IT**_ so he asks in his head. Begs. For _**IT**_ to just please not let him forget "him."

A moment later, he begins to beg for _**IT**_ to let him remember who he means, and it's not so long after that he falls silent.

* * *

_I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. We're happy here. We'll never leave. I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. I won't let him leave. I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. I'm happy here. I don't want toleave. I'm happy here. I don't want to leave. I'm happyhere. Idon't want toleave. I'mhappyhere. Idon'twanttoleave. ImhappyhereIdontwanttoleave._

* * *

_It's so easy to break._

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Middle Passage" by Robert Hayden.


End file.
